The Drabbles of Jack Frost
by heretoruinyourfandom
Summary: I suck at these summaries. These are random drabbles, arcs, stories, and more. Focused mostly on Jack Frost. Don't kill be please. Ratings may change. Sorry.
1. Pictures

**I suck at these.**

 **... Yes, for once my idea was original.**

 **I own nothing but the plot.**

(In which Bunny's painting skills were only worthwhile on eggs.)

"Seriously? How does one person end up drawing 15 stripes, 12 zigzags, 7 apples, and 11 petunias in a drawing competion? And in five drawings!?"

North never really did have the best ideas, did he?

Bunny stared in frustration at the drawing. And Jack, too. (Maybe not so much in frustration at him, though.)

Four crumpled papers lay on the ground, only just missing the trash can at the corner of the room.

"Quite specific, Frostbite. Have ya been watching me?"

And silence.

Jack heard a poem once that said blushes screamed. Odd choice of words. Seems that his, though, hung dry in the air. It didn't take the frustrated Pooka's attention, though, so he guessed his was quiet. He was always kind of special.

It had been North's oh so brilliant idea to have a drawing contest.

Turns out, Bunnymund cannot draw on paper. At all.

"Cottontail, I think that the paper doesn't need that kind of stress." Spoke Jack, seeing Bunny struggling to cope with a pencil instead of a paintbrush.

His furry hands were twitching in agitation, itching to take the piece of innocent paper and crumple it.

Speaking in specifics, the pencil had been pressed way too hard on the paper, creating thick marks of unequal proportions and wavy lines with extra little edges that just couldn't be erased.

It looked like an Easter egg gone wrong.

Very wrong.

Looking around the table, Jack could clearly see the other Guardians struggling.

North's hands were not holding the pencil right. He didn't actually draw the blueprints for toys, that job was left to the yetis centuries ago. His tongue was sticking out just barely, and the tattooed arms were moving back and forth.

Sandy was doing okay, but he was also having a little bout of frustration.

Sand was puffing out of his ears in a strange makeshift sigh. He was sketching a figure slightly resembling a disfigured lion.

Small golden tendrils of sand swirled around the small man, and he huffed again.

Tooth was drawing teeth. Bloody teeth. With gums and all. It was not very detailed, just a diagram like the one you would see in a dentist's office.

Jack himself was drawing a little fox, it's features crouching and speaking of playful intents.

Greens swirled and bent around the tiny 2D fox, a mischievous sparkle lighting up the fox's aquamarine eyes.

Realistic, but lines that spoke of innocence and down-right childish behavior with their hasty yet perfect curves and dips. Jack's hand hurt.

He stopped drawing with his pre-dominant right hand, instead using his left. The lines were the same. Texture, shading, quality, technique.

Perfect.

By now the Guardians were staring at his artwork, the switch not going unnoticed. Ambidextrous? Eh.

"Jack, you are very good at artwork, da?" The Guardian of Wonder blurted out after around ten minutes of watching. The others were so mesmerized that they didn't pay heed to the question.

"Uh... Thanks, North." It was not a bitter ending to the sentence, just a rather curt and hurried answer.

By this point, Jack was half-hiding his head under the collar of the hoodie. The Guardians couldn't see his face, but if they could, his violet blush would scream.

"..." All the other Guardians did was watch as the boy sketched and colored a wide-eyed fox.

If Jack was being honest, he would say that the staring was getting kind of creepy.

But if this was the love he had been hoping for for 300 years, then it was the love he was going to get.


	2. Life of a Psycho

The doctor sighed.

He loved his patients, of course, and they most certainly were messed up in the head.

Jamie Bennett adjusted the nametag on his chest, thinking about the rather dark backgrounds of them. The five patients were quite insistint on their titles as fairy-tales.

Aster E. Mund, a Japanese man at the age of 25 that lost himself after being captured during a mission in a war. He had the made-up persona as the Easter Bunny, E. Aster Bunnymund, a survivor as the last Pooka warrior.

North Laws, a Russian man at the age of 28 who's brain was permanently damaged by a near overdose on LSD. He had used it to escape his life as a college guy with no money. His persona was Santa Claus, an orphan that had led many adventures with his jolly gang of bandits.

Tiana Flyt, an African woman at age 19 with OCD so severe she began hallucinating she was the Tooth Fairy, Toothiana. After her sister's death she began her germaphobic lifestyle, trying to cloud out the brutal scene of the car crash.

Sanderson Drae, an American man at 34 who used cocaine so much that he went insane in rehab. Eventually, he developed Schizophrenia and began the fantasy life as Sanderson Mansnoozie, the Sandman.

Jackson Overland, a British immigrant boy at 14 who had gone insane because of bullies, his mother's ignorance, his sister's drowning, and his father's constant abuse. His dream as Jack Frost began slowly as he became more secluded, drawing and sketching out his perfect life. He dyed his hair white, wore blue contacts, doing whatever to become his fantasy. So young...

Jamie shook his head, sending his brown locks across his forehead.

Gripping his clipboard, he opened the door to their shared space.

Jackson was firmly grasping a shepherd's staff that he had refused to ever let go of since he'd arrived, pointing it at the wall.

The others were positioned in defensive stances, glaring at thin air.

Of course...

Their hated nemesis, Pitch Black.

They all were very scared of their 'foe', which created nightmares.

And so the delusionals continued to keep their messy life as the Guardians of Children, loving him and 'Sophie Bennett', and their fantasy was true.

The life of a psycho.

 **I love these types of fics. AUs like this are my favorites.**

 **FairGamer, peace out.**


	3. Aura of a Season Part 1

This fic is mostly angst, and another Hurt!Jack fanfiction. I hope you like it.

Jack Frost knew that he was very annoying, and that the other seasonals hated him.

But wasn't this a little too far?

Red now stained his damp hoodie, turning a sickening brown ever-so-slowly.

He grunted lightly as he attempted to sit up, his arms pushing down and slipping on the brown sludge that was mud. It wasn't mud before he was here, but that wasn't what was worrying him.

What really worried him was the wobbling vision, his normally bright eyes clouded with pain and unfocused, the yelling in the back of his mind telling him he wasn't okay, he wasn't safe, and the fiery burst of pain the ached and throbbed beneath and around his frail body.

The three seasonals were not very happy with his new status, and didn't hesitate to show it.

The bruises, broken bones, lacerations and state of mind spoke for themselves.

Jack was confident he could get rid of his little problem, and was as blunt as he could be without angering them.

It hadn't worked.

It hurt, and his mind was deliriously careless, saying to him it's okay, just look at the pretty sparkles the sun makes, and the beautiful hum of the bees and the moths and the nice lake that you drowned in!

That last bit wasn't helping his mind a bunch.

And to think that it was just a little word that began this…

He could remember the word, of course, but his memory was going fuzzy and he lost some thought and common sense sometime after the fifteenth blow to the head.

291 Years Earlier….

The boy sat on a lone tree, the branches bending little under his weight. The messy white hair of his blew in the friendly care of the North Wind, obscuring some of his vision from the wonderful scene of little children playing about.

Some little girls held tiny dolls with loose threads that looked fragile and small, others playing games with white, pure snowballs.

One group of children formed a weak but sturdy wall of the beautiful frozen water, packing them together over painstaking hours of work.

At nine years old (technically 9 years since he rose from the lake) Jack Frost was content with the joy the small kids bestowed upon him, making a warm and happy feeling show itself.

However, that was not all that the day had in store for him.

"Hey, who are you?" came a voice.

"Huh?" Jack turned his head, and his eyes widened. Three strangely dressed people stood before him, neither threatening nor friendly.

Their stances all held a certain authority, a kind of importance he couldn't bring himself to make.

An African-American, long-haired, brunette male with flowering vines snaking around his waist in a sash stood to the very left, his upper half encased in a brown tunic. His lower half had a long, off-white skirt tied upwards and around his legs to create some sort of shorts. He wore some black leather sandals on his feet. His eyes were a piercing hazel, bordering on yellow.

On the very right was a short-haired, blonde female in a red dress, yellow patterns circling the bottom of her dress. She had no shoes. Her eyes were a deep but cold blue.

By the male was a middle-aged, long raven-haired, female. She wore a dark orange shirt, and a billowing skirt with a light brown. Her sandals were a very dark purple, almost black. The female's eyes were a frightening margarine orange, boring into your soul.

"Y-you can see me?" Jack stuttered out. From the nine years he had memory of, never once had a person been able to see him, and now three could? He was ecstatic, blue eyes brightening, shining with innocent glee!

That was, at least, until the man's fist met his face.

And then he didn't know what he had done wrong.

He begged, he pleaded, he screamed as the three absolutely pummeled him into the fresh snow. And the children ignored it. Even as he yelled and moaned in pure agony they played.

Sickening cracks broke the silence, and Jack Frost lost his childish innocence.

He still pretended he was little, mischievous, and naive.

The irony was well-placed, with the naivety he already had.

Clarity Awetumm was the spirit of fall, brown skirt and orange shirt. She was the more vocal one of the three, preferring to spew vulgar, cruel, and tear-worthy insults.

Nimph Son was the spirit of summer, her heat blistering his skin.

Drako Groher was the spirit of spring, his brute force breaking many bones.

His vines could trap Jack, terrifying him at first.

End Flashback…

Begin new flashback…

Jack was thoughtful. Not as in the thoughtfulness put into gifts, mind you, as he had never given nor gotten any, but as in just regular thinking.

And he thought that he could get rid of the three seasonals' beatings.

And he was wrong.

His plan was set into action on the day they always came.

Jack's staff clutched in his hand, he sat peacefully in his claimed tree by the pond he had drowned in.

His plan? Get rid of the problem.

Said problem arrives on time, floating down from the sky to be exact, and the seasons greet Jack with fake enthusiasm.

"Hey, Frozen." To the spirit of fall's annoyance, the winter spirit ignored her.

"When we speak, you listen to the only people who acknowledge you."

Called Nimph.

The spirit still defiantly sat completely still, ramrod straight as the others stood below the tree. Jack's before lax grip on his staff tightened.

"No."

"What was that?"

"I said no." The winter spirit's tough a

nd confident demeanor cracked just a little.

"I…. I have a family now, so leave me alone."

The seasonals cackled and jeered and laughed so hard the had to gasp for breath and hold their aching stomachs.

"Oh, you're talking about the Guardians-" he had to pause to gain his breath- "who used you."

"They didn't use me." Jack spoke, his knuckles turning pale from the pressure that he put on his staff.

"Oh, yes they did."

Clarity, obviously the smallest but definitely the most strategic, climbed up the tree quickly.

"And now we will to you." She said, pushing Jack off of the tree branch with her small but strong tanned hands.

He yelped, and yelped only louder when Clarity jumped off the branch he was on before and onto his midsection.

"This will be fun."

Three hours later….

Did that rib break?

He poked at it, and then gaped and winced. His baby blue eyes were shelled with tears.

Yep, that one's broken.

The three were now frozen, actually, and he felt quite proud. Weighing the pros and cons, he figured that being safe now was better than being killed.

Yes, that's right.

Spirits, like him, were not completely immortal. They still did not age, but they could be killed by a sword through the heart, or a hard hit to the brain.

They were only resistant to time.

And starvation, dehydration, and hypo/hyperthermia, but that wasn't the point.

Honestly, he was surprised he hadn't died yet.

Heh heh, sleeping was like dying…

And he felt like sleeping…

Absently gazing at the florescent lights lighting up the night sky, he wondered how the other Guardians were doing…

At the North Pole…

"Geez, where is the kid?" muttered an impatient Bunny, his foot hopping up and down absentmindedly.

"I do not know, but ve must be payshont." assured an equally worried North.

"Um, North? Ah think it's called 'patient'."

"Paysheent, payshont," North argues. "Same difference."

As Bunny sputtered out flaws in his reasoning, Tooth fluttered about with her fairies, both jabbering addresses, sending worried glances to the open window, and eating some 'sugar-free' cookies.

The Sandman, also worried for the younger Guardian, sent some swirling tendrils of golden sand out to what was dubbed 'Jack's Lake'.

They all hoped he was alright...


End file.
